


sudsy

by Xine



Series: blood & ice cream [1]
Category: Shaun of the Dead
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst, Post-Canon, unsanitary descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6512674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xine/pseuds/Xine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fly meanders its way to Ed — attracted to the scent of decayed flesh, no doubt — and begins to torment the bumbling man as Shaun readies up for the bloodiest sponge bath he’s ever seen in his life.</p><p>(Wherein Shaun gives an undead Ed an overdue bath in a kiddie pool and things get a bit sad in the process.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sudsy

"Shaun, I know he's your best friend, but…"

His attention is torn away from the television screen, clusters of deadheads slipping on lubricated plastic and clamouring for giant slabs of cow fading into background noise as Liz suddenly breaks the peaceful silence between them. He pauses in the midst of bringing his steaming mug of Chamomile to his mouth, lips puckered on the rim and eyes widened into little rounds as he peers to his right. 

The first thought to sprint through Shaun's head is _dear god, Liz wants to get rid of Ed because he's been trying to nibble on her again while working on her petunias and now she's sick of it and shit how did I ever think having my dead best mate out in the shed would ever run over smoothly._

But he knows her better than that; knows that he's better than to think she'd tell him to bin his best friend so suddenly over a nice, relaxing moment in front of the telly; knows that Ed is too important to the both of them to even suggest it, really. Communication. No more quick assumptions or hollow promises. They agreed to work on that together.

He's also sure a conversation has started like this before at some point, but it probably wasn't over a cuppa on the quilt-adorned sofa and was more likely over a half-finished pint and crinkled up bag of Hog Lumps, fruit machine chiming in the background and David's glares digging into the soft spot of his temple. The memory’s cloudy — distant and forgotten and somewhere in the time of his life Before — but it’s there. She sounded much more frustrated then. Now she just comes off as concerned and possibly a little amused.

"Yes?" he responds, a little too hesitantly than he’d like when she doesn't finish her sentence, taking a proper sip from his mug gingerly and being mindful of the temperature of the liquid. For the past couple days, Liz has been preparing pretty much anything that isn't black tea and gravitating instead towards herbal concoctions. _Tired of the same old English Breakfast,_ she claimed. _Adventurous,_ he called her.

She wrinkles her nose and finally meets his eyes before she continues, "Every time you come back in from the garden, you bring in a bit of his… aroma."

He swallows with a soundly gulp, bringing the mug down to rest on his ankle, foot wedged underneath the thigh of the opposite leg. The tea's not bad — quite good, actually. Could probably use a little less milk. "His aroma?"

Liz taps her nose with a manicured finger, grimacing a bit as she does so, as if he had the smell on him already this early in the morning. He wasn’t going to pop in until after this episode of Fun Dead, but now he isn’t so certain.

"I know I haven't got as sensitive of a nose as you do, but I hadn't thought it was sticking to me like that," he says, frowning. In truth, the smell hardly occurs to him anymore, kind of like how farmers are accustomed to the stench of manure.

"It's really bad when you get blood on you afterward," she points out with a small grin pulling at her lips, the amusement quickly morphing into confusion. "Has he been spitting on you or something?"

“Well, he does drool some.” Shaun takes another sip, looking off to the side before turning his head back to the telly. A bumbler loses her footing on the bright blue inflatable slide and pitches forward with a soundly smack when she lands face first. The commentator erupts into giggles as the elastic tether pulls her backward, dragging a long squeak across the plastic that somehow manages to be heard over the collective groans and moans emitting from the cheap speakers. Shaun sputters into his mug, splattering tea all over his chin and neck.

Liz sighs amidst her own chuckles and grabs a tissue from the coffee table, muttering “C’mere” as she moves her hand up to dab his face clean. “What I’m saying, Shaun,” she begins with a swipe along the length of his jaw, “is that Ed needs to be bathed. Somehow.”

“How would you even do that?” he asks, tipping his head back as she wipes down his neck with the soft tissue, “Would you just put the hose on him or...” The thought is a little funny, spraying Ed with the garden hose like a dog covered in mud, but his best mate is still human, dead or not. Doesn’t deserve to be treated like an animal.

Even though he’s living in the shed like one.

Pete. What a prick.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure there’s something on the internet called “How To Wash Your Zombie” or something,” Liz says, ending at the full stop with a quick dab on Shaun’s right earlobe.

“Don’t use the z-word,” he responds pensively, planting a kiss on her cheek while she tosses the crumpled tissue into the bin. She apologizes, replicating his gesture with a press of her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Let me wash your hair in the shower next time,” Shaun offers, giving her leg an affectionate squeeze.

“Only if you give Ed a bath.”

“Okay.”

“A proper one,” Liz points at his chest, “Don’t just spray him with the hose.”

“I wasn’t gonna.”

Liz pats the hand resting on her thigh and gets up from the couch. As she wanders to the kitchen, she calls out, “Fantastic. Has he got any extra clothes left behind in the flat?”

Shaun glances around the floor with a brow raised. It’s practically spotless now — Liz was always much more tidy than he was, or really anyone his own age that he knew, for that matter — but Before, this space was essentially Ed’s bedroom, beer cans littered across the coffee table, Cornetto wrappers caught between the cushions, socks and pants hung over the heater. He doesn’t know what they did with it all during the post-quarantine haze.

“Um,” Shaun hollers, then sets his mug onto the table and hops off of the sofa. “I’ll look in the wardrobe.”

He starts for the doorway, but the bookcase catches his eye and he remembers that he has yet to pay his respects for the day. Kissing the pads of his fingers, he presses them onto the glass of two framed photos sitting on the topmost shelf. “Hey, Mum. Hey, Philip,” he hums. ”I’ll stop by with some flowers tomorrow.”

With that, he races for the stairs, mindful not to catch his feet on the carpet at the archway. The last thing Liz needs is a completely dead boyfriend to go along with a partially dead flatmate chained to the garden shed.

  


* * *

  


Trying to squeeze a kiddie pool through the back door was being more difficult than it should have been, the edges getting caught on the handle at least three times before managing to finally just be shoved past the doorway. It rolls away a meter or so before its own weight pulls it down onto its bottom.

The bucket is difficult, as well, but it’s only cumbersome due to being filled to the brim with hot water and privy to sloshing around at the slightest nudging. Above him the sun gleams past some split clouds, sunlight shining upon his shoulders with a welcoming warmth. It’s been cold lately — when is it not in London? — and part of him worries that Ed’s experiences in the shed have been less than pleasant. Another part of him reminds him that his best mate is undead; the undead don’t get cold, or tired, or sleepy.

That’s what they say, anyway.

He settles the repurposed mop bucket onto a flat spot of grass by the shed, hearing the faint sounds of gunfire and groans from inside the small enclosure. It’s been nearly three years and Ed is still not sick of TimeSplitters 2. Shaun chuckles to himself. Ed didn't like change Before and now probably couldn't care less for novel experiences.

The kiddie pool joins the bucket with some soft kicks that one would usually do with a football, the inflatable bouncing with little give across the damp ground. He quickly pops back inside the flat to grab the bottle of soap, a pair of rubber gloves, and a bath sponge, taking two tattered tea towels from the kitchen for good measure.

“Ed,” he calls from outside the door as he pulls on the handle, “it’s bath time.”

A pair of ghostly, baby blue eyes peer at him from over a bloodied shoulder, the light of the small television flickering at his front and casting a reflection that manages to make the murky eyes even more unsettling than they already were. The sight of them doesn’t bother Shaun at all anymore, in spite of how different they are from the deep brown irises he was once used to, but Liz herself has a hard time looking at him now.

“Liz, it’s been months. The “mobile deceased” are everywhere,” he told her, doing air quotes with his fingers as he spoke. “I don’t know how you manage every day without looking at them.”

She shook her head. “I do look at them. It’s just with Ed, it’s... It’s different.”

He didn’t understand it then, taking it personally that she couldn’t face his best mate of over twenty years, sounding more than just a little defensive. “What, because he’s not in a uniform like those lot at Somerfield? Because he’s still got blood on his face?”

“I _know_ him, Shaun,” she said with a twinge in her voice. Her brows knitted together as if the words were painful to say.

Immediately he wanted to fire back with “Yeah, well, you know the trolley boy and I watched you wave at him the other day,” but he stopped himself, taking in the sadness lining her features. No one close to her turned after Z-Day; they all either survived with a few scars to show for it or died in such a gruesome way that they couldn’t come back even if their brains wanted them to. No undead were to be found in her family or her friend circles, except for Ed. Ed is different.

“Morning, mate. Beat any high scores while I was gone?” Shaun steps inside, standing beside his lumbering friend to watch the action of the video game unfold poorly on the telly. Ed just grunts at him in response, turning back toward the screen as he feebly mashes the square button with a clumsy index finger. After a few seconds, he blows himself up with a mine.

When Shaun shifts forward to hold down the power button on the PlayStation, he’s met with a displeased groan at his back, plastic controller poking weakly at his hip in protest. “Sorry, man,” he lets go of the button and the machine whirs to a stop. “Like I said: it’s bath time.”

He clicks the TV off, as well, and then spins around on his heel to look at Ed head-on. He stares up at him dumbly, an expression definitely not unlike the ones he used to give Before, back when the z-word wasn’t scientifically approved by the world’s leading doctors. For as much of a slob he was and still is, Ed always managed to look like an innocent, doe-eyed monkey when he’d try to get out of tidying up or washing the dishes or doing really anything with a sense of responsibility. He was good at it, too, because Shaun fell for that adorable face every time without fail.

It isn’t any different when he does it now, yet his face somehow looks a little... emptier.

_Oh. Made myself sad._

Pursing his lips he glances over at the chain trailing off of Ed’s collar, attempting to mentally calculate just how much is attached to him before giving up and deciding to unwind the rest of it to check for himself. Going past the wooden crate Ed is still seated upon, who watches him with the occasional haunted moan escaping his throat, Shaun takes the cold chain in hand and begins leading his friend out of the shed.

There’s a few meters of it at most, stretching out enough for Ed go round to the back of the battered shed and touch the fence behind it, but even if he were capable of climbing the fence, he’d end up choking himself in the process. He isn't worried of his undead friend escaping in fear of him hurting someone, but rather more afraid of him getting hurt by someone else. Ed is domesticated, to put it the best way possible, and if he tries to bite it’s done halfheartedly. He’s more of a fan of beef than people, anyhow.

Shaun coaxes him into the kiddie pool, tipping it on its side just slightly so Ed can actually step inside of it instead of kicking it farther away. He’s pretty obedient — considering what kind of person Ed was Before — and stands with his feet in the star-patterned vinyl, waiting.

They stare at each other for a moment. Shaun poses triumphant, hands on his hips and chin held high for managing such a feat, and Ed wobbles in place, hunched over and drooling with his endless gaze.

“Right,” Shaun says, clapping his hands together as he assesses what to do next. Digging into his pocket, he takes out a sheet of printer paper and unfolds it. “Step one: after gathering the supplies listed above, prepare heated water. Allow time to cool before use.” He looks briefly at the bucket. “Check. Step two: undress the zom— your dead friend.”

He looks back up at Ed. No reaction.

“Okay.”

Giving the printout a quick skim, Shaun bends down to grab the rubber gloves from the grass with his free hand, tucking them under his arm. A fly meanders its way to Ed — attracted to the scent of decayed flesh, no doubt — and begins to torment the bumbling man as Shaun readies up for the bloodiest sponge bath he’s ever seen in his life.

He puts the gloves on with a snap at the hem, wiggling his fingers inside them. He steps forward to lift up Ed’s arms to make the clothing removal process as easy as possible, but finds himself freezing up. Suddenly, he feels a little scared, catching a glimpse of Ed’s teeth in his open mouth, loose-necked and slack-jawed posture causing dark shadows to cast over his eyes from beneath his brow. Ed ignores the fly poking at his neck, watching his childhood friend gape right back at him.

Nearly a year has since passed and Shaun has become used to and even grown fond of this version of Ed, yet the hours he’s spent with him side-by-side in the shed has seemingly culminated to nothing. Being right up in his face and literally rubbing up against him is far different than their regular gaming sessions, and while Ed’s attempts at biting may just be jokes, they also might not.

Shaun’s never been frightened of Ed before.

Scowling, he picks up one of the old tea towels and rolls it into a haphazard ball, then with all the fearlessness he can muster, sticks his gloved fingers in Ed’s mouth, pulls his jaw down, and then stuffs him with the cloth like a roasted pig. Ed stumbles, disgruntled and groaning deep in his throat at the intrusion. The fly buzzes away.

“I’m sorry, Ed, but I just can’t risk it, can I?” Shaun replies softly, gripping Ed’s shoulders to keep him from toppling over. He awaits some kind of aggressive reaction — a lunge with ninety sum kilos powered behind it or the piercing of unclipped nails into his skin — but Ed does nothing. He is only given that never-ending stare.

Underneath the gloves Shaun can feel the slight warmth radiating off of his longtime friend; deadheads, as their name and deceased status would imply, are cold like corpses yet leech off the surrounding heat like any cold-blooded creature would. Seeing him in the light of the sun showcases just how absolutely filthy Ed is, face smeared with the juices of his steak from the previous night and the ashes from the Winchester meeting its end in a barrage of flames. The surface of his t-shirt is crusty from dried blood and saliva, save for a small patch along his sternum glazed with fresh drool, and his arms look like he fisted someone’s exposed insides before being brought back home.

Shaun’s got his work cut out for him.

He starts by lifting up both of Ed’s arms, cupping them from the inside and pushing up, but when he lets go, they just fall to meet Ed’s sides once more. Determined, he tries again, and again, and again before resigning to the fact that Ed is either unable or just unwilling to cooperate. Knowing him, it's probably the latter.

Shaun curls his fingers underneath the hem of Ed’s shirt, peeling the blood-matted fabric up to the “I Got Wood” graphic — admittedly it still garners a snort or two from him whenever he sees it — then takes hold of one of the sleeves and attempts to shimmy Ed’s arm out of it. It works out miserably. Liz once told him it was a wonder he managed to undress himself every day, much less take someone else’s clothes off without causing an injury of some sort. That hasn’t happened for a while, though.

With a frustrated huff, he gives up. Scanning his mate’s large form from bottom to top, he ponders his next course of action before a light bulb goes off in his head. Shaun holds up both of his pointer fingers as he quickly states “Two seconds” and leaves Ed with his bare gut hanging out and his right arm awkwardly slung in his shirt sleeve.

Pulling one glove off, Shaun marches back into the flat with a mission, pulling drawers open one by one with his clean hand until he finds a pair of scissors. Examining it further, he realizes that it’s probably an old pair that once belonged to Pete, if their being lefty scissors being anything to go by. He’s sure his ex-flatmate won’t mind.

_Well, he is dead, so probably not._

Walking back into the garden he’s pleased to find Ed still in the same place, flinging his free arm in the air and swatting at that fly with the same amount of energy as a moss-covered sloth. He’s also pleased that the other man’s distracted and doesn’t take notice to the sharp object in Shaun’s hand, lest he think his best mate is going to butcher him postmortem. _Why, he never._

With the other glove back on his hand, Shaun pulls Ed’s arm back through the sleeve properly and straightens the trunk of the shirt out again, making him appear as normal as a dead person covered in dirt, grime, and red can. Then, while his friend’s opaque eyes are turned away in pursuit of the fly, takes the blades to the bottom of the fabric and begins cutting along the seams.

Ed seems largely unbothered throughout the process, and by the time Shaun has finished, the only parts of the t-shirt still connected to itself is on the left shoulder. It comes off with a bit of difficultly — blood is a surprisingly effective adhesive — and Shaun notices that he forgot just how hairy Ed is. Hunting around the garden for a place to keep the piece of clothing, he decides to just hang it over the shed door.

Despite the disgusting state of the garment, he still wishes to keep it as a keepsake, as a memory of his walking dead friend like widows who keep the clothes their spouses died in in a old shoebox. Maybe he can put Ed’s full outfit in one of those fancy air-sealed, plastic garment sleeves. At least that way the odor won’t get out.

“Alright,” Shaun proclaims, walking back with the shears still in hand, “looks like we’re finally making progress.” He won’t need the scissors anymore, so he flippantly tosses them over his shoulder and brings his fingers to Ed’s fly with little hesitation. As soon as he grabs the hem, though, he feels the heat rise up from his neck all the way to his ears. _Christ._

Here’s a list of people whose trousers Shaun has unbuttoned: himself; Sarah from year twelve who broke his nose with her foot when he tried to suck on her big toe (he doesn’t even like feet, but she definitely did); Yvonne when they went to a rave one night and she was too pissed to manoeuver it herself; and Liz for recent and obvious reasons.

Never Ed’s. Alive or dead.

Working the zipper down, Shaun makes small talk in an effort to relieve his embarrassment. “Sorry ‘bout your clothes, mate.” How many times has he apologized today? “We couldn’t find any old ones in the flat. Liz went out for a grocery run, though, and said she’d go round Peacocks to buy you something nice.”

Ed groans, gazing up at Shaun with puffy cheeks as if oblivious to fumbling hands on his groin. Shaun continues, “Can’t have you in the same thing for the rest of your unlife, huh?” His shitty joke makes him laugh nervously and Ed only stares. Clearing his throat, Shaun grips the denim shorts on either side and pulls them down to Ed’s ankles. He looks up to be met with a sizable bulge hidden beneath dark grey boxers.

“We’ll, uh... take care of those some other time, yeah?”

Another groan.

  


* * *

  


By the time Shaun dunks the hourglass-shaped sponge into the mop bucket, the water’s cooled down to a soothing and warm temperature. Ed sits with his knees tucked against his chest, squeezed within the confines of the kiddie pool, drool soaking through the towel in his mouth and beginning to trail down his chin. A pair of shoes and mismatched socks sit in a pile by the shed, shorts folded neatly underneath them.

Shaun peers at the printout folded open to his left, arm outstretched to the right as he mindlessly spins the sponge around on the water’s surface. “Step three: soak z— dead person’s skin and hair with warm water,” he reads aloud, “Be mindful not to scrub with towel or sponge too intensely as this may cause the skin to slough off if they are undernourished.” The usage of slough off makes Shaun wince, imagining the pale flesh of his friend’s arm falling off into the colourful kiddie pool in a mess of gore and rot.

They spend more money on Ed’s diet of steak and ground beef than they do on themselves, honestly, so he won’t have to worry about that.

“If your dead person is not hostile, talking to them in a friendly manner will likely keep them from attacking you,” he continues from the guide. “Good. Was gonna do that anyway.”

Scooting himself forward, Shaun sits cross-legged in front of the pool and gets to work, wringing water out of the sponge to pour it over Ed’s scalp. "Don't freak out," Shaun mumbles. Ed starts at the feeling of the liquid running down his forehead anyway, so Shaun waits to see if his demeanor changes. It doesn’t, so he proceeds, resaturating the sponge and pressing it on Ed’s cheeks, shoulders, knees. He’ll have to do more detailed cleaning on the face and neck later.

Shaun does what he can with his friend’s constricted posture, wiping from top to bottom around Ed’s soft body, taking his time to get every crevice and spending much of it moisturizing the hairy chest thoroughly through all the blood caked down upon it. A puddle of red begins to form at Ed’s feet, one year-old blood dyeing the water a brilliant maroon. He’ll have to sanitize this kiddie pool — several times, actually — when he’s finished because he could not in good conscience allow his neighbour’s children to play in an inflatable that was at any point doused in deadhead fluids.

Probably should also talk to Liz about getting a pet dog before Stacy starts asking where this supposed “eight month old Schnauzer” who needed a bath is hiding.

With his arms hung plainly at his sides, Ed plays around in the water with his fingers, swirling the red and splashing it about drunkenly. Having much of the grime gone from his body, Ed would just look like a furry and pale-eyed infant enjoying a spring morning in the pool if it weren't for the chained collar round his neck or his blood-soaked mouth.

“Well, I think that’s the best we’re gonna get for now.” Shaun gives Ed one more stream of water over his belly before returning the sponge to the bucket. “Step four: if your dead friend still has blood or dirt on their person, lather them with body soap using a clean towel,” he reads, reaching for the discarded rag lying on the damp ground. Making a face at its frayed state, he holds it up to Ed and asks, “This seem alright to you?”

Ed continues splashing in the water and moans noncommittally, muffled by the rag still stuffed in his mouth.

Shaun shrugs in the same loose-shouldered way Ed always did back Before and grabs the half-empty bottle of body wash. “It’ll have to do for now,” he comments, squeezing a sizeable dollop onto the cloth. “Liz uses those weird loofah things — you know, the ones that kinda look like netted tribbles tossed in a trash compactor — so we’ll have to get you some proper bathing towels next time.”

Rolling the tea towel around in his hands after dipping a bit of it in water, Shaun pauses, watching his oldest friend’s vacant face stare right through him. “Because you deserve better than this, Ed.”

He tries not to let his own words get to him by distracting himself with the task before him, gently wiping down Ed’s legs with the sudsy cloth. The skin is purpled, all of the blood in his body having settled there in postmortem. His scrubbing rubs out a few stray splatters of red left behind by Ed’s own wounds, deep gashes once dripping life onto his knees while tiredly hunched over, clutching a rifle in one hand and holding a lit cigarette between his lips. Shaun can still smell the burnt remains of the cellar door on Ed’s skin.

_Quit it. It’s been a year. What’s all that therapy been for, huh?_

The most tiresome spots to clean after attending to his mucky legs — how Shaun never saw the sheer amount of grime on his friend previously is beyond him — is the right arm and torso, the main accumulation points for all that Ed had bled months ago. The bite on his arm is as healed as a dead person’s can get, too dry and scabbed over to bleed again. Much of the ooze from his shoulder bite ended up dripping down his chest and back, clotting on top of the wound after a few days.

Shaun decides to clean around the bites, not wanting to know what will happen if he aggravates them any. Maybe covering them with some bandages would be a good idea. He’ll suggest it to Liz when she gets back, see what she thinks.

Thinking on it, despite her not saying so, perhaps Ed’s filthiness is part of why she can’t look at him now, and maybe cleaning him up will be just what she needs to feel a little more comfortable with him. Maybe they can let Ed out of the shed more often when they’re out in the garden, provided they keep him gagged. Can’t risk any biting.

The dark brown patches on Ed’s chest melt into a bright vermilion as the soap does its job, painting the towel with it almost entirely after just one swipe. Shaun makes a disgusted noise at the sight of it, looking forlornly at the water inside the bucket, not wanting to contaminate it too greatly. That would kind of defeat the purpose of giving Ed a bath, wouldn’t it?

Pausing in his work, he excuses himself to go get the hose, testing the temperature of the water on his fingertips after momentarily peeling off a glove. It’s still much too cold to use on his friend directly, so — whether or not the deceased can even sense temperature — he doesn’t want to take the chance of making Ed feel miserable if he can avoid it. Whilst probably being a waste of water, Shaun opts to rinse the rag with the hose and then warm it up again in the bucket in spite of their utility bills.

He repeats this process, adding a bit of new soap each time, over and over again as he works around the bulk of Ed’s upper body. As he scrubs and rinses and lathers, he quietly talks absentmindedly to Ed, who becomes fascinated with the bounciness of the inflatable pool, thwacking it with his hand and watching it wobble with each hit.

Shaun talks about how his job at the refurbished Foree Electric location — the old one having been destroyed on Z-Day after getting caught in a nearby fire from the café next door — was going over much better than he had anticipated, that he wasn’t certain how well he could handle a managerial position. Liz said she’s proud of him for stepping forward and taking a job that requires selflessness and responsibility not found in his old job. Work is going over well, and he feels like he’s finally starting to grow up.

His rambling goes on as he finishes up the most tedious part of the sponge bath, telling an inattentive Ed about Liz’s promotion in the primary school’s English department, wringing the towel after running it under the hose. With both of them earning increased pay wages, they’re in the talks of purchasing a car that’s actually reliable and made within the past five years and not the cheapest thing they could get their hands on after the pseudo-apocalypse. Liz wants a blue sedan, preferably a European make from 2001. Shaun doesn’t really care, provided it isn’t a Renault or a Jag.

They probably couldn’t afford a Jaguar if they truly wanted one. Good thing, that.

All that is left is his mate’s head; hair matted and still holding the same gel product from a year ago; face dingy with dirt and ash and shiny with fresh drool mixed with old blood; neck smeared with bite wound muck and leather colour treatment transferred onto the skin in messy patches. The rag in his mouth sticks out between his lips a bit awkwardly, puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk carrying a stored meal.

“I’ll get rid of that soon, mate,” Shaun refers to the gag, flicking a finger at the bits poking out Ed’s mouth. ”Probably doesn’t taste all that great, does it? Liz’s getting us all brisket for dinner tonight, though. Bet you’ll get a kick out of that.” Ed lets out a muffled howl, still preoccupied with the sides of the kiddie pool.

Shaun tosses the tea towel into the bucket and holds his gloved hand under the water’s surface, feeling for the remaining warmth in it and finding that it’s become largely lukewarm. “Let’s clean up your hair first before the water gets chilly,” he says while squeezing the steel blue soap into his palm. Actual shampoo kind of went over his head and the instructional guide called for nothing other than regular soap. “Don’t want to freeze your head with cold water. That’d be rude.”

Shifting to rest on his knees and straightening his back to get the proper angle, Shaun begins massaging the body soap into Ed’s haphazardly styled hair, doing his best to get all of the old product gunk out of it. The foam forming atop his head turns into a slight pink as it picks up some mystery blood — from another deadhead, Shaun guesses — that had matted down the very top of his head.

As he works the suds throughout Ed’s short hair, Shaun thinks of his mum, thinks of her soft hands being as gentle as possible as the digits carded through every knot and tangle, her rounded nails scraping just so on his scalp that goose pimples would trail their way down his neck and his entire arms. Doing this — repeating the motions of his late mother as she had done for him as a boy — makes him think of how natural it feels to do the same for his best mate.

With a bittersweet chuckle, Shaun tells Ed, “I kind of feel like your dad.”

Ed doesn’t respond.

His gloves are a little slick when he stands and pulls the bucket up by the handle with the towel wrapped around it, but he manages to slowly pour the liquid onto Ed and rinse away the bubbles tapering at his temples and giving his whole body a quick rinse. Ed doesn’t startle as much as he had before, but he does lift his head up only to get splashed directly in the eyes with some slightly soapy water. His eyes are hardly bothered, and he looks sort of funny with his hair so flat, pressed onto his skull like blackened slime. He pushes the strands off of his friend’s forehead, slicking it back nicely as if he was getting Ed ready to put on his Sunday best.

The filth caked on his face starts to clear away, painting streaks along his jaw, dripping off to continue their journey on his shoulders and down his arms into the puddle beneath him. It’s unsettling how pallor his skin really is, purging a year of smut off his skin revealing the heavy set of his sunken eyes, the webs and tendrils of blue veins stretching across his eyelids. His flesh is like thinned, bleached cotton — sheer and translucent.

Shaun places the bucket back onto the grass and settles down beside it, sitting on his feet with his knees just barely touching the vinyl of the pool. Grasping the cloth once again, he adds only a few drops of soap onto it before bringing it to Ed’s chin, rubbing small circles as delicately as the deadened flesh requires.

Under the cloth does Ed’s face finally appear, free from the preserved remains of his bites, from the fallen ashes of his temporary grave. Any colour that was once in Ed’s face vanished ages ago and he looks anything but lively, visage as pale as a cadaver on an autopsy table, uncovered with funeral fixings and makeup.

Shaun feels the weight in his chest push inward, his sternum sinking and suffocating his lungs with each clearing of Ed’s skin.

If it weren’t for the cataract-ridden eyes, the ghostly pale flesh, the vacancy of his facial expression as he stares through Shaun as if he were hardly there at all, Ed would just look like himself from Before after stepping fresh out of the shower, hair soaked and dripping onto the flat’s carpets with little concern of Pete’s inevitable rage over dampened floors again.

Shaun’s cheeks are wet before he notices that he’s crying, and fuck, his eyes are burning and the tears are hot and his brows are knitting together so hard it’s painful. Ed’s focus shifts and he sits eerily still as his clouded eyes follow the tears streaming down his friend’s face.

Hurriedly, Shaun rinses the tea towel in the bucket and returns it to Ed’s jowls, wiping off the smudges of dirt along the jawline and down the curve of his neck, no longer caring about muddying the water. The towel scrapes against the perpetual stubble scattered across Ed’s chin and neck, one of many reminders that the dead don’t grow — only slowly decay.

The remaining mess on Ed’s skin is rushed clean, Shaun haphazardly cramming a flattened hand between Ed’s neck and the old collar wrapped around it, just wanting to escape this awful, humiliating moment as soon as he possibly can. He doesn’t know how well Ed’s cognitive functions operate — he always skips over the biological studies of “the mobile deceased” on the news — but the primitive and highly emotional bits of his brain is screaming at him for bursting into tears in front of his best friend since primary school, regardless of said friend being able to recognize it for what it is or not.

Completely cleansing Ed’s person is only making it harder to bide the tears stinging the corners of his eyes, though.

Tossing the bloodied cloth onto the grass, Shaun shakily pulls off the gloves on his hands whilst turning to the printout at his side, trying to read the small black text in spite of the blurring of his vision. Opening his mouth just barely, Shaun reads aloud once more, the knot in his throat making it a struggle to choke out, “Step five: dry your dead friend with a clean towel.”

He doesn’t bother with further instructions — “pat the skin dry; do not scrub, as this may cause flesh to peel off” — because he knows he wouldn’t be able to get it out if he tried.

“Two seconds,” Shaun manages to say just above a whisper before getting up and speeding into the flat, trying to hide the sobs threatening to break up his speech. The garden door creaks as he flings it open, heading straight for the front entrance and up the stairs to reach the bathroom. He rubs at his eyes, pressing hard at the juncture between his tear ducts and the edge of his nose bridge, trying to stop the tears from flowing past his lashes through sheer willpower.

When he gets into the bathroom, he attempts to avoid the mirror at all costs, but with the plum towel clutched against his chest, he glimpses at his own reflection and stops to stare at the stranger gazing back at him through the glass.

He was always told by his exes and a few of his old mates from college that he was such an ugly crier — so prone to emotional outbursts after breakups — and they were far from wrong. He cringes at himself, seeing how bloodshot the whites of his eyes get, how his cheeks flush with embarrassment, how his lips press together so hard they form a single crooked line across the bottom half of his face. How... unsightly.

It takes a lot of effort to tear his eyes away, but he manages it somehow and makes his way back downstairs. Ed watches Shaun through the opened doorway as he makes his return, and the stare makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He slows down his stride as he steps out into the garden, wary of Ed’s sudden and scrutinizing attention.

He still feels fresh tears pouring onto his cheekbones, but he wills himself to just pretend it isn’t happening as he approaches Ed, frantically assessing what his mate could possibly be thinking in his corroded brain. He nudges him, curling fingers under Ed’s arms and lifting him onto his feet. With one hand on each upper corner of the bath towel, Shaun blankets it atop Ed’s head and presses down on it, soaking up the water still caught within his hair.

From beneath the hood of the towel, Ed continues his stare, cold pupils boring straight into Shaun’s skull with an unusual intensity never seen by him before. Shaun sniffles, cradling the sides of Ed’s face with the towel as he attempts to determine what the emotion splayed before him means. If didn’t know any better, he would say Ed looked sad.

A low groan from Ed’s throat fails to escape the guard of the makeshift gag, but for as muffled as it is, it rings loud in Shaun’s ears as he slides the towel down onto his friend’s shoulders. His throat aches when he quietly asks, “What is it, Ed?”

The silence stretches between them, the sounds of cars passing by and dogs barking echoing in the faint distance. Then, slowly, as deliberately as an undead person can, Ed ducks his head and falls forward, his forehead meeting Shaun’s chest with a muted thud.

He stays there, arms hung plainly at his sides as he pushes all of his weight against Shaun’s body, quiet and unmoving. Shaun finds his fingers grasping desperately at the towel wrapped round Ed’s neck, his knuckles gone white as the tears come back in full force. “I’m sorry,” he says between sobs, burying his nose in Ed’s damp and mussed hair.

Ed lets out a breathy groan, the vibrations reverberating into Shaun’s core. His hand swings forward, pressing the pads of his fingers on Shaun’s stomach and catching them onto the folds of his navy t-shirt, possibly the most comforting gesture Ed can muster in his half-alive state.

Together they stand there, the inflatable kiddie pool being the only thing separating the two of them as they clutch onto each other in their first moment of intimacy in eleven months, their last being the final time they traded words in the cellar, alcohol-fueled smoke heavy inside their lungs.

Shaun finally understands what Ed is thinking, what he is saying to him, in spite of guttural moans and howls being his only mode of communication. He isn’t afraid of Ed, of his bloodied teeth, of the simple and animalistic instinct to tear apart any raw meat that comes his way — not anymore.

His best friend is still here, somewhere in that rotted brain.

  


* * *

  


“He looks really good, Shaun,” Liz starts over a hot cup of lemon and ginger tea as she watches Ed stumbling about in the garden, cradling her mug with both hands from just outside the backdoor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so clean.”

“Ed’s never been great at personal hygiene, honestly,” Shaun replies, holding his mug near his breast and leaving the tea largely untouched. He enjoys the general aroma of the unfamiliar beverage and it isn’t really bad, but the taste doesn’t stand out to him much at all. Liz seems to like it, though.

The tune of the Stone Roses filters past the doorway and into the garden, tiny chords of acoustic guitar jingling behind them as Liz leans against Shaun, resting her head against his shoulder. “Red suits him really well, doesn’t it?” she asks, wrapping her arm round his lower back.

In the centre of the garden, Ed pushes an arm through the pocket of his maroon pullover, staring at his own hand in vague wonder when it appears out of the other side. Getting him into the new attire was a group effort — particularly when it came to slipping Ed into the new trousers, wherein he nearly fell on top of Liz after catching his foot on the waistline — but they managed without anyone getting hurt, thankfully.

Ed looks so cosy now.

Shaun nods in the midst of sipping his tea, swallowing before saying, “You dressed him up better than he ever dressed himself.” He cradles her shoulder in his hand, giving her arm a little shake. “I like the suede slippers you picked out. They match his hair.” 

Liz snickers, “I thought the same thing.”

“Did you have fun picking out his new clothes?” Shaun smiles, glimpsing down at the side of Liz’s head. He is met by her steely eyes when she turns her head to look up at him, mirroring his grin as she brings the mug to her mouth.

“Yeah.” A quick sip and a quiet tut against her teeth. “I was a little afraid of the shorts being a size too small, but I suppose I remember Ed being bigger than he really is.”

“I think he lost a little weight, actually. Probably goes along with the whole dead thing.”

She hums in agreement, shifting her attention back to their undead flatmate and observing the slack-jawed reaction to fresh, dry, non-crusted clothing. Ed bends over a bit too far while gawking at his own hand poking out the hoody, his body weight toppling him over onto his side on the dewy ground. He groans with a sneer at the impact, eyes rolling back in annoyance. Liz snorts into her cup, just enough for a couple drops of tea to land on her cheek.

Shaun takes a thumb to the edge of her mouth, catching the droplets with a single swipe. She thanks him, nuzzling her head into his arm briefly. The conversation lulls and a pause of silence settles between the two of them, entertaining themselves with the sight of Ed trying to disentangle his own limbs as they nurse on their drinks.

With a deep breath, Shaun takes in the scent of roasting brisket, a combination of paprika, oregano, and cumin floating amongst half-cooked beef. His stomach rumbles at him, grouchy and starving, and he’s not sure if he can last the next two hours without sneaking in a nibble or two.

“Are you feeling alright?”

That was unexpected. Shaun tilts his head at her, frowning in confusion at the abrupt concern in her voice as she peers at him. Her face is a little grave, almost like she was afraid to ask the question to begin with. _Communication is key_ , he hears his therapist gently lecture in his head. That was the promise they made.

“Yeah? I feel...” he stops to really think about it, then continues, “pretty good, actually. Why?”

She fidgets a little, shifting her eyes back to Ed a few meters away and distractedly tracing a thumb in crooked circles on Shaun’s back. When she returns her eyes back to him, she says, “You looked like you were crying earlier. Eyes were all red.”

Oh.

It did take him a while to calm down.

“I wasn’t sure if I should’ve asked. Did everything go okay?” Liz’s eyes widen suddenly and she pulls away from Shaun, taking her free hand off his back and feathering it over his belly. “He didn’t bite you, did he?”

Shaun can’t stop the laughter bubbling in his throat, bending down to settle his mug onto the tiled ground. He plants both hands on either shoulder and gives her a reassuring squeeze, her muscles relaxing just slightly under his touch. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says, bringing her in for a quick hug. She returns it single-handedly, the bottom edge of her cup poking his shoulder blade.

He pulls away a moment later, keeping Liz close as he continues, “I think I just finally came to terms with...”

Her eyes scan his own, searching and waiting for him to finish before she does it for him. “With Ed?”

“Yeah.”

A beat and then Liz beams at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She looks so proud. “That’s good.”

Shaun nods and turns back toward the garden, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and tucking his spare hand in the pocket of his shorts. Liz pats his hand with her own, holding it there as she takes in a long, deep breath and joins him in watching over their bumbling, undead friend.

They both let out a relaxed sigh in unison, gazing at Ed sitting on the grass with his legs sprawled out lazily in the light of the setting sun. The dying rays shining past the garden fences give everything a friendly glow, and Ed’s face looks just a little bit warmer than usual.

**Author's Note:**

> The Cornetto Trilogy holds the top three spots for my favorite films of all time and yet I've somehow never written anything for them until now. Please do let me know if any of the expressions or spellings in the language don't fit well; I am but a filthy American trying to write in a British tongue.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always greatly appreciated. ♡


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